Walk Out of the Shadows
by frankenfeels
Summary: "Every murder turns on a bright hot light, and a lot of people... have to walk out of the shadows." - Albert Maltz. Moriarty and Sherlock finally meet for the first time.


**Title**: Walk Out of the Shadows

**Author**: porpoise-song

**Characters**: Moriarty!Molly, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and then mentions of Moran!Jim, Irene Adler, and Mycroft Holmes.

**Rating**: Pretty much a G.

**Disclaimer**: Unless I want Weeping Angels and the Crack to follow me (Steven Moffat), umbrella marks on my body (Mark Gattis), red coats storming my place (BBC), and a Victorian Age dressed zombie chasing me (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle), I need to say that I own _absolutely_ nothing.

**Summary**: "Every murder turns on a bright hot light, and a lot of people... have to walk out of the shadows." - Albert Maltz

Moriarty and Sherlock finally meet for the first time.

****Warnings**: **Nothing really. Except that Sherlock has an arch-enemy by the name of Moriarty.

**A/N: **Set about a year after the Great Game. And, no, I'm not saying that Moriarty!Molly is in love with Sherlock (you'll see what I mean at the end), she's just looking after her plaything. Also, sort of a sequel to "A Bright Hot Light", but you don't need to read that to enjoy this.

* * *

><p>No. No. This cannot possibly be happening. It is completely illogical. The whole thing goes against everything that Sherlock thought of—everything that he deduced about her. It also went against the laws of morality.<p>

She's supposed to be _dead._ Gas leak was the story given to the public—_a lot of gas leaks these days, eh?—_but the true cause was a bomb; a very simple one that anybody could make in their home. However, Sherlock always suspected it to be the work of Moriarty. But why, he asked himself and anybody within an earshot, why target Molly? Why a forensic pathologist who, at best, was just an acquaintance of Sherlock?

He stood over her bones—well, what was assumed to be her bones, but the dental records proved that Dr. Molly Hooper died in the explosion. He and John had gone to her funeral—out of respect and John's insistence—, had seen her family cry, had heard the modest, yet praising eulogies, and saw her coffin lowered down, six feet under.

And yet, probability be damned, there stood Molly Hooper on the other side of the small garden, a smug smile plastered on her face. "Hullo, Sherlock", she greets him warmly and in a pre-dominantly Dublin accent. "I can't tell you how nice it is to _finally _meet you in person—face to face."

"Molly", he stammers out, absolutely flabbergasted. "What the hell?" His eyes quickly examine her body to see if she's decked out in any explosives. She isn't.

She cocks her head at him, flattered. "Oh, so you _do _remember me? Well"—an amused smile tugs on her lips—"you may forget my appearance but you'll _never _forget my name."

His breath hitches as he attempts to process this information. She's not wearing anything sexy, if anything what she is wearing—a blue, silky sailor's dress, red heels, and a minimum amount of makeup—only downplays what she's implying. However, looks can be deceiving. Her features are more determined and sharp; her voice silky and seductive with a dull, deadly edge; and her body, her posture is more confident and firm. The clothes only seem to contrasts and enhance her sweet smile and her cold eyes.

"You're—you're Moriarty?" he stutters out bemusedly.

"Right-o", she playfully tells him. "You see", she takes a few steps towards him. "I've learned a long time ago that Moriarty isn't really a person anymore. It's, because it's no longer a she, is more of a myth, an illusion—you flash that name, people become scared, and everything starts to work. In the same way that _you_, Sherlock, have become a myth. Oh, you should hear what people are saying in back alleys, gambling dens, and seedy backrooms. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock"—

"Stop it", Sherlock snaps at her, rage edging into his voice. "Just stop it."

—"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock..._Sherlock_." She flashes him a pearly smile, bearing her small, sharp teeth. They stare at each other for a moment. "Like the garden?" she casually asks Sherlock as she gestures to the rows of yellow tulips, white daisies, and bushes of red roses. "Jim was always the theatrical one."

"I assume that this _Jim _you're talking about is the man that we believed to be Moriarty?" Sherlock asks her calmly, carefully watching her features, attempting to get more information out of her and get the upper hand. "Who is he by the way? You wouldn't just let _anybody _be your proxy."

"Yes, you're right. I don't like getting my hands dirty...never did. And, well, if I'm the anti-Sherlock, then Jim must be the anti-Watson. Sebastian James Moran, look that name up", she flashes him a grin. "Moriarty and Moran—Holmes and Watson. The way it was always supposed to be. This is going to be fun—this _has _been fun", she says in an excited voice.

"Playing Molly Hooper for the past three years, nervously giggling at your debonair and cleverness—then watching you dance and not just from afar, oh no. But _right beside you_." She glances down at her feet, a fake uncertainty in her movements. "Tricking you once was fun—but the second time was a privilege."

He shuffles his weight to his other foot. "I will stop you", he finally lets out in a deadpanned voice.

Molly responds with a girly giggle. "I just find it _so _adorable that you still think you can. I mean...are you _any_ closer to doing so? Are you any closer than you were a year ago?" she says in a low voice, and then shrugs. "You're welcome to try, but I very much doubt that you'll succeed."

She stares at him, an upward curve on her lips, as he stares back, his face blank, but his eyes bright in thought.

"Y'know, I must confess", she starts, looking down. "I've never met anyone quite like you—that Irene character comes the closest, but she was rather annoying. Such a brown-noser, all the while thumbing her nose at me, tying and wrapping me in string, but when she pulled the strings, she hung instead", she says in a disgusted, but cool voice, a smirk tugging on her lips.

Sherlock feels like the air has been knocked out of him. "Irene?" he softly lets out. Irene had left England three months prior and, since then, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had had a blimp of her on their radar. They had eliminated the idea that she went into hiding without telling them, for she always did like to bother them, and she did always like to send Sherlock random postcards with puzzles hidden on them quite frequently. "What did you do to Irene?" he demands, taking a step towards her.

"Now, now, Sherlock—that would be _telling_. You always liked the interesting, _funny _cases...well here's one. Where in the world is Irene Adler?" she tells him playfully. He has to take a deep breath to keep from showing his anger.

Her eyes flash with amusement as she glances towards the exit of the garden. "Well, this was fun! We should have done this _ages _ago. However, I really need to dash. The life of a consulting criminal never does quite end—just work, work, work!"

"No, hang on", he says icily. She pauses as her eyebrows shoots up into her hairline in surprise. "Where the _hell _is John?" When Sherlock had returned back to the flat from New Scotland Yard, he found John missing and a yellow tulip placed carefully on his armchair. He hadn't even bothered to grab John's gun when he ran down the stairs and hailed for a cab.

"John...John...John", Molly murmurs absentmindedly to herself. Her face brightens with realization and a smile. "Oh, John! If there's anything that Molly Hooper and I have in common is that we can never remember the name of your _pet_."

"I should say the same to you."

"If you'd like, although, he prefers it when _I _call him that." She glances at the gold watch on her wrist. "And by my calculations, you have only six minutes to find him before I win." An upward curve appears on her lips as she strolls over to the exit. "Everyone has these on their face—tootles Sherlock", she calls back to him, throwing her a wave over her shoulder.

"Everyone has these on their face?" Sherlock mutters to himself as his eyes sweep over the garden for any clues. "Tulips", he groans out as he spots a shovel leaning against a post and a slight disturbance in the tulip bed.

He runs over, grabs the shovel, and starts frantically digging through the earth, pulling out and disturbing the yellow tulips. He's dug almost four feet before the shovel hits something hard. Wood. A coffin.

Sherlock quickly pulls out the coffin and opens it. In it, is John, with an oxygen mask hanging loosely off his face and oxygen tank, cradled on his chest like a baby, with the dial on empty. "Come on, John", Sherlock growls at him, lightly slapping his face. "Wake up, you."

John inhales a large gulp of air and then starts hacking out pieces of dirt, as he attempted to sit up. "Sherlock?" he whispers out warily. "Molly...she's"—

"I know", Sherlock says simply as he turns away from John and sits down. "I know—how could I have _not _seen it...seen through her disguise. So stupid", he mutters to himself as he lightly hits his forehead with the palms of his hands.

"Sherlock", John struggles to lift his hand and pat him on the shoulder. "It wasn't your fault."

"Yes, yes", Sherlock looks at John. "I know." John weakly smiles at Sherlock before a determined look overcome Sherlock's features. He suddenly stands up. "We have to stop her—stop Moriarty and find Irene."

"What?" John lifts himself out of the coffin, like a newborn colt. "Did Moriarty kill Irene?"

He glances at John, an upward curve on his lips. "Oh, no...Irene Adler is still alive John. I know it. Moriarty wouldn't kill her—not yet, I think."

* * *

><p>Sherlock finds Irene almost three months later, barely alive in a warehouse outside of St. Petersburg. She gives him a grateful smile and tells him that it took him long enough.<p>

Fifteen months after he finds Irene, Sherlock finds himself on the edge of Reichenbach Falls, Molly Moriarty only a few feet away. "And so it ends", Molly says in a resigned voice, but a satisfied smile on her face. "Not with a bang, but with a whimper", she gestures to the Falls, her and Sherlock the only people there. "I've always imagined myself dying in an explosion or poisoned from _Clostridium botulinum_—I always thought how fitting and ironic it'd be."

"I always thought that I'd die in an alley from drugs or from the occasional thugs", Sherlock shrugs lazily, making casual conversation with a super villain, even though both or either one of them was probably going to die in a few moments.

Molly chuckles goodheartedly at that. "Neither I _nor _your brother would have allowed that, dear Sherlock. He cared about you too much and you sucked me in far too deeply to tolerate you such an anticlimactic and undignified death." She holds out her hands in an offensive fighting stance. "Ready, Sherlock?"

Sherlock holds out his hands in a defensive stance. "Always ready, Molly", he says in a serious and deadpanned voice, his face void of any emotions.

Molly's face becomes determined. "Alright", she drawls.


End file.
